


Light My Way Back Home

by stardustlupin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Aiden (The Witcher), Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustlupin/pseuds/stardustlupin
Summary: At 21 Lambert ran off and joined the circus, leaving behind a would-be illustrious tenure with the New York City Ballet. At 23 he finds himself back in London, lost, listless, and a little wounded, haunted by nightmares of history, both ancient and recent, and chasing a daydream in the shape of his best friend. Until, of course, he runs into his first crush. At a The Rosemary and Thyme of all places.
Relationships: (background), Aiden/Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Comments: 22
Kudos: 40
Collections: The Modern Witcher AU Collection





	1. I knew you

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to eyesofshinigami for beta reading!

They’ve fucked plenty over the years, of course. Both young and attractive with too much energy to burn — what did you expect them to do? Leave it to Aiden to go and change the rules. Because now he just _wouldn’t_. Two weeks and he hadn’t made a pass, had been actively ignoring Lambert’s every attempt to start something — anything. And it was just so bleeding frustrating because Lambert _knew_ that it had something to do with the way Aiden stared at him when he thought Lambert wouldn’t notice; that look of pure, unadulterated, fucking infuriating sadness. With the way he kept laying soft, barely-there kisses to the fading bruises littering Lambert’s face, his back, his chest — but never going passed his waist. The way he kept licking the mostly-healed split on Lambert’s lower lip, the way he held him close — _so fucking close_ — when they went to sleep at night, his long fingers trailing up and down Lambert’s stomach, his face nuzzling into Lambert’s neck; all in all acting like a mother cat fussing over an idiot kitten who had gone and run itself into a door. 

And it’s fine — _it’s fine. Nice even._ Or it would be if Lambert hadn’t found himself inexcusably wanting more, or something else. Because they used to fuck all the time, and they’d been best friends for going on a decade now, and Lambert wasn’t on the rebound because he and Letho weren’t — they hadn’t been — 

_Fuck._

So yeah. _Maybe_ Lambert was starting to feel _things_ for this insufferable, cocky, flighty bastard with his mane of auburn brown curls and his brilliant green eyes and his wicked pink smile. So _maybe_ it hurt just a little that he was going cruising when Lambert was _right fucking there_ — but it was sure as shit annoying that Lambert was being dragged along behind him. 

“Where’s this place again?” Lambert was still sprawled on the bed in his underwear, determined to be as big of a nuisance as possible.

“Camden. You’ve heard of it before. The Rosemary and Thyme.”

“That’s a fucking sex dungeon innit?”

“Not really,” Aiden replied, his attention fixed on his reflection as he put… something in his hair. _Fuck he was beautiful._ “It’s more just a bar for people with certain inclinations to hang out. And some play rooms. New owner’s trying to mellow out the image. Shouldn’t be too bad for the faint of heart.” A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“New owner?” Lambert drawled.

“Wiley died a few months ago. Left the place to some musician I think. Supposedly a minor royal as well.”

“Always was a weird bastard. Who names a sex dungeon The Rosemary and Thyme?”

“Paid for your scholarship didn’t he? And mine.” Finally done primping, he caught sight of Lambert in the mirror. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not dressed.”

“I’m not?” Lambert looked down at his bare legs and torso with abject horror. “Shit. Hadn’t noticed. Ah well, suppose I’ll just throw on a coat then. Should be more than enough for a sex dungeon.”

“You know, you might actually like it.” A sly grin spread across Aiden’s face as he turned around.

“Never really been one for leather and chains.” Lambert eyed Aiden’s tight leather trousers, the deep cut leather vest that without a shirt showed more of his chest than it covered. He aimed for snark but his face twitched into a grimace at the words anyway. It was enough to give Aiden pause.

“Not everyone is.” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if it were meant as reassurance. He came to stand in front of the bed, in front of Lambert. He dropped forward, crawled up the mostly-naked body until they were eye to eye and hip to hip, his forearms either side of Lambert’s head. “But I do remember you being _very accommodating_ in bed.”

 _Maybe I should refresh your memory._ “Oh fuck off.”

“That’s the idea.” Aiden nodded with great solemnity.

For a moment too long Lambert thought this was it — Aiden would kiss him properly, they’d fuck, they’d stay in. All’s well that ends well. But then Aiden got that look in his eyes again, and he smoothed a thumb carefully across the yellow-green skin at Lambert’s cheekbone, and he sighed as he kissed Lambert’s hairline. 

“‘Fraid that’s not going to cut it. We’re going to have to get you dressed.”

.o.O.o.

After Aiden wrestled Lambert into slim cut black jeans, a tight white t-shirt, and a dark oil slick bomber jacket (a look he called gayer-Danny-Zuko) and Lambert bargained his way down from four hours to three, they arrived finally at the gold-framed, blacked-out doors of the Rosemary and Thyme. December 21st, 11pm. Surprisingly, not many people visit high-end kink-clubs right before Christmas. At least, that’s what Lambert assumed when they entered the vestibule and heard only a dim chatter from the room beyond. Aiden pulled out his ID and a matt-black card, proffering both to the burly man behind the host stand.

“Brought a plus one with me,” he said, jerking his head in Lambert’s direction. He offered his ID as well. 

“Bands?”

“Red for me, white for him.” 

The — doorman? Host? Bouncer? Handed over the two slips of stretchy fabric and ushered them onward with a wave of his hand.

Now, Lambert had never actually _been_ inside the Rosemary and Thyme, but he’d heard enough that the reality of it defied all expectations. Where he expected red lights that did little to illuminate, pulsing music, and a space crammed with furniture both mundane and erotic, the room he found himself in was open — cavernous even — well lit with honeyed light dripping from a massive crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. A slight chemical bite still exuded from the creamy walls, but the furniture looked worn in an almost homey way; brown leather couches and armchairs placed neatly around low, antique looking wooden tables, and brass reading lamps with green glass shades. Their shoes didn’t even stick to the deep walnut hardwood floors.

At first glance it looked like any fancy hotel lobby, but a quick inspection soon gave the game away; patrons kneeling on cushions at someone’s knee, little signs reminding people of the house-rules, everyone wearing armbands — mostly red or blue, with the odd white, and yellow here and there.

Aiden let out a long whistle, his attention flitting around the room. “New owner certainly doesn’t waste time. These walls were black a month ago. I feel a bit underdressed to be honest.”

Without thought Lambert reached for his hand, suddenly on edge. “What does white mean?”

“Approach with caution.”

“Aiden,” Lambert whined — a sure sign that he was about two seconds away from losing it. 

“It means talk but don’t touch,” he answered, giving Lambert’s hand a light squeeze, “alright?”

“Alright.” Still unhappy, but his voice at its usual gruffness. “Three hours yeah?”

“Three hours,” Aiden confirmed with another small, reassuring squeeze. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink before I head inside proper.” Not letting go of Lambert, he led them to the bar — sturdy, oak, also remarkably not-sticky. Though, Lambert supposed, the night was still young. 

“Double G and T with a wedge of lime, and three tequila shots please.” 

Lambert raised his eyebrows in a silent question. 

“Oh I can burn through three shots in three hours easy.”

“Less,” He corrected. “we’ve been here two minutes and you haven’t had them yet.”

“Yeah yeah baby boy. You’re sweet to worry.” Aiden playfully shoved at Lambert’s head as he spoke. 

Lambert's smile pulled jus short of his eyes, which were fixed steadfastly on the bar-top. Once he had his drink in front of him, he pulled his hand away, curling it around the glass as though it were his new centre of gravity. Aiden chased one shot with another. Silence stretched longer, and more taut than it usually did between them. 

And then, in that soft, gentle voice Lambert had heard so much since he got back, “Maybe we should just go, yeah?”

“Nah it’s fine. Already here, might as well make the most of it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Aiden asked, cupping Lambert’s jaw in his hands, forcing the seated man to meet his eyes, searching them.

“I’m sure Aiden. Go have fun, I’ll meet you back here.”

“Well, alright then. Try to have some fun yeah? Mingle. Get some rich fuck wrapped around your little finger. Come find me if you need anything.” Leaning forward, he kissed Lambert’s forehead three, four, five times, and released him.

Turning back to his drink, Lambert showed Aiden a different finger as he walked away with his last shot.

And _maybe_ Lambert wished he wouldn’t, and _maybe_ Lambert _could have_ said he wanted to go home, but Aiden so clearly needed to blow-off steam, had been jumping for days. Last thing Lambert wanted was to hold him back. So instead he settled himself in for two hours and forty-eight minutes of waiting, determined to keep his eyes fixed on the bottom of his glass and ‘another’ ready on the tip of his tongue.

He lasted ten minutes before curiosity and restlessness got the best of him. With a fresh drink in hand he dragged himself away from the bar, and idly walked the room’s circumference. A fair portion of the assembled crowd looked to be wearing tailored clothes; bespoke suits and cocktail dresses, flashes of precious stones set in precious metals. The aura of self-importance was so ripe it was a wonder how they didn’t choke on it. Most seemed content to lounge around, sipping martinis and scotch on the rocks, yapping away about whatever people like them yapped about. Occasionally couples or small groups would slip through a black door on the far end, opposite the entrance. Lambert guessed that it led to the playrooms. This early in the night, he had yet to see anyone come back out. 

Arriving at the door he decided to have a look beyond the veil — as it were. Couldn’t do much harm. Besides, the gin and bottle of water he drank before they left were making themselves known, and this was the only door in sight. Ergo, toilets. The door opened up onto a sort of antechamber, which was spacious enough for four chairs and two small tables. Heavy wooden doors on either side lead the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Straight across was a pane of shimmery, heavy looking black glass. Lambert mulled over the wisdom of leaving his drink out while he went to relieve himself. Decided against it. Downed the glass and went for a piss. 

The men’s room looked like it was having a bit of an identity crisis. It sported two leather wingbacks — like the one in the main lounge — and a wooden vanity stocked with colognes, moisturisers, and even hair gel. Everything else was black; the floor tiles, the walls, stall doors, urinals, sinks — the lot. The light was a deep blue. As far as restrooms go, this one was compensating for a lot. 

Nature answered, he went back out to contemplate the shimmering black door. The steady, low _doofdoofdoof_ of club music vibrated through the thick glass. Red light seeped out onto the floor. Aiden was somewhere in there. Aiden said to find him if Lambert needed to leave. Lambert _wanted_ to go home but he didn’t _need_ it. Not yet anyway. He glanced at his watch: two hours and thirty-nine minutes left. _Fuck_. He’d just have a look. Just to see. If Aiden saw him, and maybe — probably — assumed that yeah, Lambert was a needy shit that couldn’t be left alone thirty minutes let alone three hours, then — well. It happened. With a fortifying exhale he pushed it open. 

Now _this_ was what he thought The Rosemary and Thyme was going to be like. A small black glass-topped bar in the centre of the room, black fake leather chairs of the modern persuasion surrounding black glass tables, occupied by bodies clad in black leather and latex where they were clad at all. A flash of brushed steel here and there, strips of leather secured around wrists and ne— He didn’t look too closely. No Aiden. And he didn’t want to linger. 

Ignoring the battery of _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck bad idea don’t look_ he hightailed back to the main room. His heart wasn’t beating too fast, he couldn’t hear it, he wasn’t breathing too hard, too shallow, he couldn’t feel icy pinpricks of sweat on his back, he was _fine._ He just needed another gin. Only problem? The first boy he ever had a crush on was sat at the bar. _What the fuck was going on with this night?_

It couldn’t have been anyone else. Even from where he stood Lambert could see the faint slashes down the right side of Eskel’s face. At this distance, bathed in the soft glow of the room, he could still be twenty. _Fuck._ How old would he be now? Lambert was twenty-three… he would be twenty-seven. _Shit._ Had it really been seven years?

Lambert was not conscious of his continued walking, but he must have done because Eskel was suddenly _right there._ And he was fucking _smiling_ at some pretty little thing stood between his legs, his hand petting through their dark curls. Lambert reached the bar, traded his empty glass for a full one, and slid a little closer. Eskel didn’t notice him. He wouldn’t, Lambert knew. When you had Eskel’s attention you had all of it. He was nice like that.

His smile was nice too, and his laugh. Warm, like sweet porridge on a winter’s morning, hot milk at night, or a soft fleece blanket draped around your shoulders while you played Playstation in the common room. They did that a lot, way back when. No one else would go near Lambert. He was too aggressive, too scary. The scars probably didn’t help either — the one’s running down his face. But then, Eskel had scars too, and he was fucking magnetic. Clearly. Pretty Thing obviously thought so. The way they were practically swooning into his touch was a dead giveaway. Lambert tried not to think too hard about how it felt — those thick fingers mussing his hair, or scratching his neck in passing. Lambert tried not to think too hard about those hands rubbing his back when he’d had another nightmare and woke up in a panic, or his stomach when he was sick. Lambert —

“Lambert?”

Lambert choked on his drink.

“No —" Lambert sputtered, "I mean — yeah I —” Chest burning, his eyes watered as he tried to get himself under control. Horrifically, or perhaps thankfully, another coughing fit tore through his throat. A broad, warm hand patted his back, rubbed firmly up and down until he could breathe properly again. Lambert tried not to think too hard about how it made him fucking _tingle_ from head to toe _._

“Alright?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he croaked. 

Pretty Thing had moved to the wings somewhat. Their look of concern quickly soured when they were dismissed with a polite, “It was nice talking to you.” If Lambert wasn’t so caught up in his own embarrassment he would have found it satisfying. As it was, he would only get the chance to think about it later, when he was falling asleep.

He kept his eyes glued to the bar top, perfectly aware of Eskel’s on him. Watching. Regarding. _Smiling._ It went on for too long.

“What?” Lambert demanded, blatantly defensive.

“I just — been a while hasn’t it?”

“Seven years,” he said immediately. Too fast. He’d obviously done the math. Eskel’s smile grew, if that were fucking possible.

“Seven years… That makes you what? 24?”

Lambert shook his head. “Not yet.” He didn’t make eye contact. Raised his glass to his lips. Played it cool.

“6th of February.” It wasn’t a question.

Lambert choked. “Yeah,” he stammered. “Yeah. That’s right.” And then, because nothing else was offered. “You remember.”

“Course I do.” Eskel’s smile grew yet again as Lambert’s face became somehow more red. “Bet you don’t remember mine.”

“August 27th.” _Too quick. Fuck._ If Eskel smiled anymore his face was going to fucking split open. “What are you smiling at?”

“You.” As if it were that obvious. As if he were saying _always you._

 _“_ Well stop it. S’fucking weird,” Lambert mumbled petulantly as he took another drink. 

“Well what would you have me do? Walk around with a sour face all the time like you do?” Eskel teased.

“Yes,” Lambert said, rounding on him with all the bravado he could muster. It wasn’t a lot. “Sour that pretty face of yours. S’too fucking sweet.” That wasn’t half as cutting as it was meant to be. He promptly turned back to face the bar.

“How much have you had?” Eskel nodded to his tumblr, a mixture of amusement and mild concern painted on his face.

 _“_ Not enough.” Lambert polished off the rest of it to underscore his point. 

“Ah, well, in that case — Sam,” he turned to the bartender, “two more please.”

Sam obliged. They clinked their glasses together; Eskel said _cheers,_ Lambert mumbled indistinctly. Hunched forward, he kept his eyes and hands on his drink, clinging to it for emotional support. Eskel continued looking at him, of all things. 

“Come here often then?” Lambert finally asked, making a vague gesture to signify Eskel’s apparent familiarity with the bartender. 

“Only a couple times, and only recently. A friend of mine just inherited it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They’re upstairs if you want to say hi.” 

Something about seeing _Geralt_ tonight for the first time in seven years, and meeting his boyfriend — his boyfriend who owned and operated a place like this, it just — it chafed something in Lambert that already felt too raw. It must have shown because the next words out of Eskel’s mouth were, “We don’t have to. We can stay here.” His voice was low, calming. The same voice he used when he used to say _ssh Lambert ssh it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re not there anymore, it was just a dream, it was just a dream._

The tension in Lambert’s shoulders unwound a notch or two, but he didn’t look up or speak.

“I can go if you want.” Eskel said it so earnestly, like he wasn’t offering the worst fucking outcome in this situation. 

Lambert snorted. “Stay if you like. It’s all the same to me.”

A half amused smile crossed Eskel’s face. Too knowing. “How about you? You come here often?” 

“Nah. Here with a friend.”

“A friend?” His brow furrowed as he considered the distinct absence of a third party. His eyes caught on the white band high on Lambert’s arm.

“Yeah. He’s in the back. Bastard dragged me here to wait around while he played.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very good friend.”

“He is,” Lambert snapped, heat rising to the surface of his skin. Too defensive, too emotional — he hadn’t seen Eskel for _seven years —_ he shouldn’t be — He scrubbed at his face roughly, pushing his hair back, mussing it up. “He just — he didn’t —“ The words weren’t coming out right. He couldn’t explain without saying too much. But he couldn’t _not_ explain at all. “I got back to the city a couple weeks ago. Been staying with him. He wanted a night out. Think he had a standing appointment or something, but he didn’t want —“ _to leave me alone._ “He asked me to come with him.”

It might have been seven years, but Eskel could still read Lambert like a teleprompter; the steady but too-obvious rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his eyes seemed stuck on something invisible, the clench of his jaw, the small tell-tale flexes of him grinding his teeth — Eskel had seen it too many times, knew what would happen next if he didn’t steer him to safer waters. 

“Okay.” He twisted discreetly so that his body faced the bar, less direct. “I’ll just hang out here until you go home or get sick of me then.” Non-threatening. He waited in silence until the younger man was comfortable enough to speak again.

“So.” The cheeky quirk of Lambert’s lips was as plain as the nose on his face. Eskel raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Always had a feeling you were a kinky bastard.” He gestured in the relative direction of Eskel's person, tried and failed to cover his smugness by raising his glass to his lips. 

“Can’t help it if everyone attracted to me is desperate to get on their knees and call me daddy," Eskel replied with a smirk.

“Well I’m not calling you daddy.” 

“But you’ll get on your knees for me?” _Walked right into that one didn’t he?_

Lambert sputtered as he tried to keep his gin inside his mouth. If he wasn’t careful they’d be signing his death certificate tonight. Cause of death: Choking on a G&T. Fucking ridiculous. But the spike of heat colouring him a violent red from his chest to the tips of his ears had nothing to do with the coughing. It’s just that, now he’d pictured it — _fuck._ “That’s not — that’s not what I said,” he managed to stutter at last.

“How about you? You into this sort of thing?” Eskel asked, relentless, with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. 

“I — uh — I,” Lambert hadn’t planned on having this conversation tonight, least of all with his former-foster-brother-slash-gay-awakening. He wasn't drunk enough for this. “Maybe a bit.” Heat flared across his face again, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered just how obvious it was. His eyes caught on the red band on the other man’s arm, almost blending in with his shirt. “So red means — ?” Aiden hadn’t actually said. 

“That I prefer being the dominant partner, yeah.”

Lambert had very purposefully not taken a drink as he waited for his answer. “Right,” was his only response. Verbally. Physically his body was experiencing a cacophony of reaction; heat spilled over from his face to pool his gut, prickled up his back, nerves rang high and clear sending a shiver right through him. _Fuck’s sake._

“How about you?” Eskel asked, voice dripping with feigned innocence. 

_Shut up._ “The other one,” Lambert mumbled, his eyes boring holes into the bar-top. If Eskel smiled anymore, Lambert was going to get punchy.

“You always were shy.”

“M’not fucking shy!” Lambert protested, his voice high and shrill with outrage, eyes bugging out. Then there was that laugh again, all deep and rumbling. It was the sort of laugh that could make any room glow, even as it wrapped around you nice and snug. The corners of Lambert’s lips twitched upwards. “I’m not shy, alright?” He insisted at a much more even pitch, squarely facing the other man, forcing himself to finally make eye contact. “This is just fucking weird is all. S’not like I expected to run into _you_ tonight. _Here_.”

“Alright alright, fair enough.”

Now that Lambert was looking at him properly, there was no escaping the warmth of Eskel’s gaze. It was almost too easy to slip into their old familiarity, to make like they still knew each other. Looking at him, Lambert could feel the last seven years melt away, leaving him a boy of sixteen, stubborn, and determined to carve a place for himself in this world. Lambert could tell the moment Eskel saw the bruises; the crease between in his brow, the flicker of sadness in his eyes — it was all the same as it had always been. He looked away even as Eskel reached out reflexively, fingers touching lightly. He drew his hand back sharply, as if realising he shouldn’t have done that. 

“What happened there?” You could hear Eskel strain to keep his voice light and even.

“Fight.”

“Somethings never change, huh?”

“Yeah. Guess so.” Lambert swallowed, but it was dry.

“Hey, you alright Lamb?” _You alright Lamb?_ How many times had he been asked that same question by this same person. _You alright Lamb?_ Back too early, suspended from school for fighting. _You alright Lamb?_ Hands shaking, one of the older boys being a dick. He’d get kicked out if he threw the first punch again. _You alright Lamb?_ Hiding in a closet upstairs. He couldn’t sleep the night before. Didn’t want anyone to see him like this. 

But they weren’t at Morhen’s Keep Orphanage. And Lambert wasn’t eight, or twelve, or even sixteen, so he really, _really_ needed to stop fucking spinning out. He needed to fucking breathe properly. He needed to leave. He needed — 

“Hey Lamb? Let’s play a game.” Eskel spoke in that quiet, conspiratorial voice he used when he and Geralt tried to get Lambert to do something stupid. Not that Lambert ever minded. It was usually a good time and they got into more trouble for whatever it was than he did. Still, if he’d been fully present he would have hated it. Found it condescending. A small, obstinate part of him did even now, as black crept into the edges of his vision. “Close your eyes,” Eskel instructed, his voice low and gentle, but firm, and authoritative. Like he was guiding a meditation.

Keeping them open was getting hard anyway.

“We’re at home. It’s dark. Everyone’s in bed — even Vesemir. We should be too, but I can hear you sneaking down the hall. You’re quiet, but the floorboards always creak in winter. I wait for the creaking to stop before I step outside. I see you sitting on the floor across the corridor. I say ‘Alright Lamb?’ and you say —“

_This is so fucking stupid._

“Perfect,” he replied, the smile obvious in his voice. “You remember your lines.

“I move to sit next to you and —” he stretches out the word, slows down to make sure Lambert’s paying attention, “I put my hand on the back of your head, like this.” Even as an adult Eskel’s hand cradles Lambert’s head as it would a child’s. “And I scratch, like this.” Thick, blunt nails scratch his scalp at a slow, measured pace. 

Maybe it was just that drinking doubles all night was finally catching up with him, but Lambert didn’t feel the urge to fight whatever this was. Instead, he gave himself over entirely to the specks of molten gold sprinting through his body. His body relaxed by degrees, of its own volition. His shoulders went slack. His breathing evened out as Eskel moved down to scratch at the base of his hairline. His eyelids fluttered with pleasure when Eskel flattened his palm against the back of his neck and stroked, up and down. 

“You open your eyes—” Lambert does “—and I say ‘alright Lamb?’ and you say —?”

“Got any food? I’m starving?” 

The smile that broke across Eskel’s face was blinding. “So we sneak down to the kitchen,” he gave a surreptitious glance around the room before hopping the bar, “and we pilfer —” he drags out the word the ten seconds it takes to find some food. “Olives.”

“Olives?” 

“Or…” he rummaged through the shelves some more before reemerging. “Almonds coated in cacao powder.”

“Better.” 

Eskel cracked open the tin and they were silent for a while as they sampled their spoils. 

“Good game,” Lambert said once he’d reached his verdict. “I mean, it was really fucking stupid. But these almonds are fucking delicious, so.” He popped another in his mouth with the first genuine, eye-crinckling smile Eskel had seen on him all night.

They didn’t talk much after that. Lambert seemed perfectly content to munch on their almonds, and that relaxed, easy smile stayed on his plush lips. Eskel didn’t want it to go anywhere. He was having too much fun watching as they became increasingly coated in cacao powder. What conversation they had was kept neutral, — _when were you last in London? how’s it being back? you watch the football last night?_ Then —

“You’re always fucking staring,” Lambert grumbled, his ears turning pink again. 

“Sorry. It’s just —” Eskel reached over, swiped his thumb over Lambert’s mouth, then brought it back to his own for a taste. 

Lambert blushed easily. That was true even when they were children. Over the course of that night Eskel fast grew to appreciate the coppery tint it gave his tan skin, but he missed it this time, his eyes fluttering closed as he tasted the mixture of chocolate and Lambert’s skin. 

“Fuck.” He heard someone whisper. He wasn’t sure who. 

There was no chance to figure it out before a mop of auburn brown hair pounced on Lambert, planting a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. 

“Fuck — _Aiden._ ”

“Sorry I’m late,” Aiden said with a not-so-apologetic lick as he flung his arm around Lambert’s shoulders and rounded on Eskel. “You Eskel?”

“Uh…” was all Eskel managed, his brain scrambling to switch gears in order to accommodate the abrupt appearance of this man, who seemed to vibrate with barely contained energy. Olive brown skin, a fine nose, bright green eyes that sparkled with as much mischief as the upturned corners of his dark pink lips — undeniably pretty. He swiped at his nose. Sniffed. It sounded wet. “Yes.”

“You and Geralt have very distinct faces,” Aiden explained. 

“Boxing fan?”

“Bit. Hard to miss though innit? The way this country loses their shit at every sporting victory as if they had something to do with it. Heavyweight champion’s nothing to turn your nose up at either.” 

“That explains why you’d know Geralt…”

“Distinctive face,” he repeated as he gestured to his own, “boxing career dramatically cut short, then youngest boxing manager in the world. Plus, baby boy over here mentioned you were foster brothers. Wouldn’t stop going on about you when we first met actually. It was all—”

“Shut up Aiden.” Lambert sounded almost angry. He was looking off to the side again, a sharp crease marring his brow. 

“What? I’ve got to give my thanks to the original Lambert-Whisperer haven’t I?” Aiden teased, nudging Lambert with his hip.

“Have you now?” 

“Lambert-Whisperer?” Eskel asked with a small smile and frown, both humoured and confused by the title. 

“Yeah. Well. You know.” Aiden offered no further explanation, suddenly contrite as the tension whipped back into Lambert’s body. Ignoring Eskel entirely, he pressed closer to Lambert. Protective. He nuzzled into his hair. “We should go,” Aiden whispered, planting a kiss on the side of Lambert’s head. It would have been stupid for Eskel to be jealous. 

“Sure.” Lambert downed the rest of his drink, put his hand on Aiden’s back as he stood. “Nice seeing you again. Say hi to pretty boy for me.”

.o.O.o.

Shortly after Lambert left, Eskel returned to the office upstairs feeling somewhat confused, and all interest in both cruising and the reconnaissance mission he had been sent on lost. He found Geralt and Jaskier in much the same way as he had left them: Jaskier pouring over paperwork at his desk and Geralt sprawled on the couch. The only noticeable difference was Jaskier’s hair, which had become yet more dishevelled.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into downstairs.”

“Who?” Jaskier supplied when his friend failed to participate, caught up as he was in some equestrian magazine. 

“Little Lambert.” 

Geralt perked up immediately. “Who went to Rambert?”

“The one and the same.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “How is he?”

“Honestly?” Eskel considered the younger man: the bruises, how he carried himself — curled inward, the cocksure attitude of his boyhood greatly diminished. The way he seemed to be on a hair-trigger, swinging almost erratically from one emotion to the next and back again. “He seemed a bit all over the place. Not sure he’s alright.”

Geralt hummed again, his eyebrows knitting together. “Get his number?”

_Fuck_

.o.O.o.

“Cut it out.” 

Aiden had not stopped gnawing at him since they left the club: his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, while they waited for a cab, during the ride back, he’d even dragged Lambert into the shower with him. Now in bed, Aiden clambered on top, grinding their hips together, elbows caging Lambert in, biting bruising kisses along his jaw. 

“Thought you liked kissing me?” He panted.

Lambert did, usually. Just not like this. “Not when I don’t know what that mouth of yours has been up to.” This was not the first time he’d tried to get Aiden to stop.

“I’ll have you know that this mouth hasn’t touched another’s lips, cock, or any other body part all night.”

“Sure it hasn’t.”

“C’mon baby boy, you know my kisses are only for you,” he crooned, peppering Lambert’s face softly, sweetly. That was true. Aiden hated kissing anyone else.

“Yeah but you’re a biter,” Lambert retorted, squirming in a vain attempt to get away from the onslaught of drunken affection. 

“Only with you,” Aiden whispered, slowly dropping his head again to brush his lips lightly against Lambert’s.

“Doesn’t coke get in the way of the sane part of safe, sane and consensual?” _That would do it_. 

Aiden’s head whipped up to look at him, eyes wide, red and watering, pupils still blown. “I didn’t —“ Fire-alarm high. Lambert hooked an eyebrow. “Lambert I _didn’t._ ”

“Don’t lie to me Aiden.” His voice was soft, strained. His eyes were fixed on the space above Aiden’s shoulder.

Lambert hadn’t wanted to bring it up in the first place. He had tried very hard to ignore it in fact. But it was eating at him, knowing that that’s what it took to get Aiden to touch him properly. Knowing that Aiden was still fucking around with that shit at all. Aiden buried his face in the pillow, next to Lambert’s head.

“I didn’t know she was bringing it alright? Or her little friends for that matter.”

“Right.” Lambert swallowed thickly.

“I already told her I can’t see her again.”

“Okay.”

“Lambert please don’t be mad.”

“Okay.” How could he be mad, really, if Aiden was finally touching him like that again?

They stayed that way, with Aiden a pleasant weight on top of him, his face turned so that his nose was just touching Lambert’s ear. Aiden held one of his hands, and with his free one Lambert rubbed Aiden’s back until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love ♥


	2. dancing in the streetlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise second chapter, by which I mean this wasn't in the outline at all but here we are

Alright, so maybe going for a night out two days before Christmas was a bad idea. But in Aiden’s defence, he’d gone two whole days listening to Baby Boy go on, and on, and  _ on  _ about going back to The Rosemary and Thyme. He wasn’t really into that shit — there’s only one reason he’d want to go again. Eskel.  _ The original fucking Lambert whisperer.  _ How’s Aiden supposed to compete with that? 

He’d being trying to take things slow for fuck’s sake. Didn’t want to screw it up like all the times before. Wanted to make it clear that he was  _ here,  _ for the long haul, no more running off whenever the fancy took him, and making Lambert chase after him a few months later. He couldn’t — he couldn’t let it happen again; Lambert showing up at his door with a busted lip and covered in bruises. It wouldn’t have happened if Aiden had just  _ stayed.  _

He was trying to be  _ decent _ about it — about making sure Lambert was alright before they did anything. He was trying to prove that he could be dependable. And then in walks every gay teenage boys first fucking wet dream. Aiden may have been Lambert’s first everything else, but how could he beat “first crush”? Lambert had been pining for the other man hard when they met, and now, clearly, he was right back in it.

The solution: Alcohol. And dancing. Distraction.  _ Look at me Lambert, I’m here too.  _ Remind him that they have fun together.

The outcome: Standing in the cold at 2:48am, sans shirt, with a black eye and a cut cheekbone, arguing with a bouncer. Turns out clubs aren’t controlled environments.

“Listen, he was being a fucking twat—”

“I know.”

“He called me a—”

“I know, and he’s being dealt with, isn’t he?”

“So why the fuck are we being kicked out?” he demanded, arms spread out in challenge. The night was already a bust — might as well add some more fireworks to the show. If only he could get the bouncer to just take the bait already. He wouldn’t though. A consummate professional apparently — he just folded his arms across his chest and watched Aiden wind himself up.

“Because you and your friend there are a fucking walking liabilities.”

“How’s that then?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’s a fucking club everyone’s fucking drunk,” Aiden retorted, voice shrill with incredulity.

“Yeah but he looks like he’s about to be sick and you’re missing a shirt.”

_ Fair.  _ Lambert  _ was _ sat on the curb, swaying, with his head in his hands. If he were being honest, Aiden wasn’t all that steady either. “So you’re just going to leave two young, attractive men, pissed off their tits, to walk the cold London streets alone?”

“We can call you a cab.”

“A  _ ca— _ ”

“ _ Aiden _ .” Lambert whined, apparently done with this conversation and having more than a little trouble keeping his head from the floor.

“Lambert?” A warm, rumbling voice that washed over the senses and muffled and the world’s noise.  _ Fucking shit on a stick  _ Aiden couldn’t catch a break.

Aiden’s head snapped to where a shiny red Beemer had pulled over. Poking his boy-band-banged head out was none other than fucking—

“Eskel?” Lambert perked, squinting at the devil himself, before turning to look at Aiden. “Aiden? You seeing this?”

“Yeah babe, I’m seeing it.” How could he not? With a car that bloody ostentatious…

“Everything alright?” he asked, smiling, but his brow furrowed. Like he was concerned or something.

“Ye—”

“Could you give us a lift home?”

_ Bastard. _ “We’re fine.”

“Sure.”

“You know him?”

“No.”

“Yes.” Lambert stumbled to the car, a goofy fucking grin on his face, wrenched the door open and fell inside. “C’mon Aiden I’m fucking beat.” He was already curled up in the backseat, hands tucked between his knees. Eskel looked questioningly at Aiden, mirth playing across his face.

Choiceless, scowling, Aiden rounded the car and slid into the front seat.

It was a silent drive, mostly, with Lambert intermittently groaning in the back, Aiden providing directions as curtly as possible, and the other man nodding and humming along  _ so _ agreeably. The flat was fairly central, so the drive wasn’t particularly long either. Plenty of time for Lambert to fall dead asleep though, apparently. 

Aiden opened the door and surveyed his would-be boyfriend. Another night, he would have been able to carry him easy. As things stood, he was having trouble maintaining up-rightness himself, and his vision was all spotty, and his upper-body was fastly going numb in the frigid air.

“Get the door,” Eskel said softly — later, it would surprise Aiden that such softness could come from so burly a man. “I’ll get him.”

So Aiden led the way to his second floor studio, Eskel following close behind with a floppy Lambert thrown over his shoulder.  _ That  _ wasn’t a wise decision, if the way Lambert bolted to stick his head in the toilet as soon as they stepped through the door was anything to go by. Then again, it was Aiden’s fault Baby Boy was so thoroughly annihilated in the first place. He shoved past the other man to get to the bathroom, crouching behind his not-boyfriend and rubbing his back with a firm hand. 

“Alright, you’re alright,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing manner. In truth he thought he sounded a little croaky, like the contents of his stomach weren’t far behind Lambert’s at all. 

With the last of his stomach lining discarded, the brunette slumped forward, head resting on his arms on the toilet seat. Aiden flushed, then pulled him up and over to the shower, peeling off both their clothes and throwing them into the far corner of the bathroom. It was hard work, cleaning them both up, and getting Lambert to brush his teeth, but thankfully things were eased somewhat by — and he’d kill you for repeating this — Eskel’s still being there when they got out. 

Aiden was on his last legs, and the other man was good about throwing them some clothes, and pulling back the blankets, and guiding them both to bed, and tucking them in. He allowed himself the small indulgence of sweeping Lambert’s hair from his brow, before leaning over Aiden and tilting his face up towards the light, with his thumb and forefinger on the smaller man’s chin. He examined his… nose, it looked like. Whatever he found was apparently to his satisfaction, because he smiled a little, his hazel eyes sparkling as he let out a pleased hum.

Aiden glared up at him, and would have asked him what the fuck that was all about if he wasn’t snatched from consciousness in the blink of heavy eyes.

.o.O.o.

It was still dark when he awoke. Stomach churning, he stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it in time. 

“Aiden?” That voice again, soft, from somewhere behind him. “I’m coming in, alright?” Whatever response he had was aborted by another gut-deep heave, but it didn’t matter what he would have said, because there was a large, warm, heavy hand rubbing his back, another holding him steady by the arm, and it made everything just that much easier. 

When there was nothing left in him, he sat back, bumping into a firm chest. Maybe they don’t know each other, and maybe Aiden’s not much impressed by him, but he was something solid that wasn’t a toilet, so Aiden leaned into it anyway.

“Hello.” His voice was like the rumble of distant thunder, vibrating against Aiden’s back in a way surprisingly not entirely unpleasant. But he sounded so amused. So _smug._

“What are you still doing here?” 

“Just making sure the two of you’re alright.”

“Why?” 

He shrugs. “Because.”

Not much of an answer, and certainly not one that leaves room for argument, all things considered, so he goes with, “You closed the window”

“What?”

“The window. By the bed. You closed it.”

“It’s freezing.” Esker pointed out, confused.

“What if Verlaine comes back?”

“Who?”

“Cat. Stays here sometimes.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he acquiesced, barely less confused than before. Aiden didn’t say anymore after that, his body slowly going lax against the him. “C’mon,” Eskel said, “You should go back to sleep.” He helped Aiden stand — because helping’s just what he  _ does _ apparently — stood close-by and ready to swoop in for the save while Aiden washed his mouth, leaning heavily against the sink.

He stayed close as Aiden walked back to the bed, and again helped him negotiate the duvet. He held a bottle of water to Aiden’s lips and encouraged him to drink.

“Spare pillow and blankets are in there if you need,” Aiden said, nodding to the wooden trunk by the window. 

“Thanks.”

.o.O.o.

Aiden fell asleep easily, but the night didn’t pass in peace. Lambert woke up shortly after, clumsily making his way to the bathroom for a piss before lurching back to bed. Restless, he tossed and turned, kicked off the covers before deciding it was too cold, and ribboned them across his body. All his fussing inevitably woke up his bedmate, who moaned and rolled over to lay half on top of him.

Half asleep on the couch, Eskel heard them speaking to each other in hushed tones, laughing, about what he was too lazy to make out. “Go back to sleep you two” he grumbled. The men on the bed ceased their talking immediately.

“He’s still here?” He heated Lambert hiss.

“Yeah,” Aiden answered, pinching Lambert’s nose, “’parently he’s worried you’ll choke on your own vomit or something.”

“Like you weren’t puking your guts out earlier.”

“Fu—”

Eskel unwound from his tight furl on the too-small couch, twisting enough to fix them both with a pointed glare. In the dark, they couldn’t actually make out more than his bulky silhouette, but the message was received anyway. “It’s only been a couple hours,” he said, padding over to the bed on surprisingly light feet, “try to get some more sleep.” 

“Aiden’s a bad sleeper,” Lambert explained, squirming down with a cheeky glint in his eye. “Failed nursery and everything. Can never get that ferrety little brain of his to shut up.”

“So you two have that in common then.” Eskel extracted the duvet from around and under them, and in a deft movement whipped it up by the corners so it floated back down to lay neatly on top of them. Only their faces were exposed, side-by-side, peering up at him with half-drunk curiosity. They looked so open, so unguarded. He felt the near overwhelming urge to kiss them both, but instead just lightly ruffled their hair and returned to the couch.

He heard the slide of synthetic silk as they readjusted themselves slightly, then nothing. When he looked back again minutes later, they were still both on their backs, but they’re heads were tilted so they were nose to nose. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like they were holding hands.

.o.O.o.

The cold sun sliced across their faces, cruelly yanking them from the last, frayed edges of sweet, sweet oblivion. The room swayed as they struggled their way to the port of consciousness, battered around by the waves of last night’s excess slopping in their skulls.  _ Happy fucking Christmas Eve. _

Aiden sits up first, slowly, in a vain attempt to keep the room from spinning. It doesn’t work, and slumps back against the headboard, shielding his eyes with the sun. Lambert follows, or tries to, but ends up with his head in Aiden’s lap, face pressed into his stomach. “How’d we get home last night?” he slurs, muffled. 

“That friend of yours drove us.”

A stab of white-hot pain shot through Lambert’s skull as he bolted upright, already regretting everything he’d ever done in his life that led to this moment. “Ah fuck. He did didn’t he?”

“Mhm,” Aiden replied, gently pushing his head back down, already missing his warmth.. “You were quite excited about it too.”

“Ah shit, didn’t he stay? Where is he?” A cursory glance around the flat revealed that he was in fact, gone, the only traces of his presence the pillow and blanket stacked neatly on the couch, and a folded slip of paper on the small, round dining table. 

_ Getting breakfast  _ was all it said. Aiden scoffed at the cliché-ness of it all, then realised they hadn’t done the shopping and there was next to no food in the flat. A sort of shame rises in him, then anger, at himself, at this man who decided — what? That they needed taking  _ care of?  _ Bullshit. Aiden and Lambert could get on just fine.  _ Would.  _ They didn’t need someone babying them, fucking, driving them home,  _ tucking them into bed _ like they were children, makeing sure they were fed and watered. No. Aiden was determined now.

He washed up, put on sweatpants, combed his hair, and badgered Lambert to do the same. Verlaine showed up, chased in by the sun and the cold, and Aiden let him in through the window. They were the picture of domestic bliss by the time Eskel showed up again: Lambert sprawled on top a made bed, Aiden sitting on an armchair reading yesterday’s newspaper, and a blue-grey kitten purring on his lap.

Eskel regarded them with an upward quirk to his lips. “Went to Paul,” he said, setting his bags on the table. “Thought some hot chocolate and croque monsieur were in order.” 

_ Fuck.  _ Of course he knows Baby Boy’s favourites. Clearly just the smell of it was enough to cure his hangover and whatever embarrassment he might have been feeling, if the way he sprang out if bed was anything to go by.

Hot chocolate and glorified grilled cheese wasn’t all Eskel got though: bags of beignets, lemon, cherry, and frangipane tartlets, a couple of large pistachio macarons, canele, quiche Lorraine,  _ bread.  _

“Thought you two could do with a feast after last night,” Eskel explained, observing the quizzical set of Aiden’s brow. “Lambert told me what you liked.”

“When?” Lambert asked, pitched with confusion and muffled around a chocolate beignet.

“Asked you before I left. When I asked for the downstairs passcode and to borrow your keys.”

Lambert frowned as he tried to pull the memory out from the recesses of his mind. Gave up. Shrugged it off. Shoved more food in his mouth. Aiden rolled his eyes and scoffed. Eskel looked at him expectantly, fucking,  _ hopefully. _

So he sauntered over, sat with his legs wide apart and his chair at a jaunty angle. He slammed a croque in front of Lambert before he could get a stomachache from all that sugar, and tore into one himself. If he were looking, Aiden would have seen the glimmer of happiness on Eskel’s face as he ostensibly accepted the older man’s gift. Food was a bit cold, as was the thick, French hot chocolate, but it soaked up the alcohol and settled his stomach well enough that he had to keep himself from moaning in pleasure.

“So, what are you two doing tonight?” The flat didn’t exactly scream  _ festive.  _ There was a small tree on the coffee table; less than two foot high, with fairy lights and tinsel thrown carelessly over it, but that was all. 

“Eating, probably.” Aiden replied helpfully, looking at paper bags and boxes scattered on the table between them with something approaching disdain.

“How ‘bout you?” Lambert asked politely. 

Eskel shrugged. “Probably just have dinner and watch a movie. Geralt’s with his boyfriend’s family so it’s just me.”

“Should have dinner with us.”

“Should he?” Aiden asked with exaggerated surprise.

“Yeah, he should.” Lambert replied flatly.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Not intruding,” Lambert insisted, then cocked his head to the side. “Might have to bring the food though. We don’t have much of anything and fuck if I’m going to Sainsbury’s on Christmas Eve.”

“I think I can manage that.”

.o.O.o.

Clearly, Eskel didn’t know what the hell he was stepping into as he walked out onto the crisp London street that early afternoon, but he was curious enough to wade in anyway. 

In the years since they’d parted, he’d followed Lambert’s career from a distance, which meant, or course, that he knew  _ of  _ Aiden Michaels. So tightly intertwined were the lives of ballet’s twin stars that it was impossible to look at one without seeing the other. Where Aiden went, Lambert inevitably followed, that much was clear from the outside, but the outside was all anyone knew. 

No one watching from afar would see the way they looked at each other, eyes burning with so much want. No one would see their graceful bodies bruised, a little bloody, wound tight, jumpy.

Aiden quit, ran off and joined the circus, as did Lambert a few months later; the world wept, but no one knew why they left.

And now here they’d been dropped into Eskel’s lap. Geralt always said he worried too much, too quickly. But how could he not this time? Clearly neither of them were doing well — what with the substance abuse and mysterious injuries and the club fights and the general aura of chaos and existential despair that clouded around them.

And still, there was the way they looked up at him last night; all doe-eyed and soft, and the way he took care of him before taking care of himself last night. There was the way Aiden coiled around Lambert that first night, protective, if a little possessive.  _ They held hands while they slept. _

Esker wanted — fuck — he wanted to take care of them, or help them take care of each other. It’s a problem he had, he knew, for as long as he could remember. It was strongest when he met Geralt; the strange boy with white hair he wouldn’t talk, and then again with Lambert; the kid with scars on his face who didn’t know his own name, and now, apparently, there’s Aiden.

When he left the other man’s flat that morning, it was knowing he would return, a few hours later, with more food and quite possibly a few other things — a list already forming in his mind. 

Fuck, Geralt was going to give him so much shit when he got back.

.o.O.o.

“You’re punishing me.”

_ Maybe a bit.  _ “Am not.”

“You’re still mad. About the other night. And last night too now, I guess.”

Lambert  _ was  _ mad, but that’s not why he asked Eskel to dinner.  _ That _ was down to a moment of insanity, obviously. Aiden getting all cagey about it was just a bonus. 

In the hours since breakfast, his not-boyfriend had become increasingly wired, pacing the flat, constantly rubbing his hands together and cracking his fingers. He couldn’t sit down, and he couldn’t focus on anything. So of course, Lambert only got calmer. He would even say he was approaching  _ cool _ in that last hour or so before Eskel was due back. He’d showered, for starters, and put on some decent clothes. Even ran a comb and some pomade through his hair while Aiden put off getting into the shower himself.

It’s how they always were: balanced extremes. When Lambert was nervous for an exam, Aiden was the paragon of chill, calmly quizzing him until he was confident enough to relax. When Aiden got anxious for an audition, Lambert worked through the choreography with him, again and again, until he  _ knew  _ beyond a shadow of doubt that his body would remember what to do even if his mind went blank. 

So now Aiden was nervously shifting his weight, watching Lambert comb his hair, and Lambert couldn’t be fucked. 

Alright, maybe he got a little mean when he was hungover. 

“Go shower will you. I can still smell the tequila in your sweat.” Aiden made to move back toward the bathroom, then lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Lambert from behind and squeezing tightly. Lambert did nothing for a while, then patted his forearm twice, before leaving his hand there. It wasn’t enough. “Go on,” Lambert said, his voice soft only in terms of volume.  _ It wasn’t enough _ . 

But maybe if they could get through the next few hours — if he  _ behaved _ for the next few hours — they’d be okay again. Eskel would leave, and Aiden could get back to his regularly scheduled... wooing. Of sorts. So he showered. And he put on his nice charcoal grey slacks and his nice forest green jumper and he combed his hair to the side, and when Eskel arrived he smiled politely and shook his hand.

“I uh — I got you guys something,” the larger man said, unexpectedly nervous. “You don’t have to wait until tomorrow,” he said sheepishly, offering the bags to Aiden, “but maybe don’t open it while I’m here.” 

Aiden was more than a little curious, but only said  _ thank you  _ and stowed the gifts under the coffee table for later. He poured wine for everyone, and brought out all the necessary utensils for Eskel to make their dinner; burgers with blue cheese and caramelised onions, just the way Lambert liked. Incidentally, it was Aiden’s favourite too.

It didn’t take too long, and they were sat around the table in no time. Unfortunately it was fucking  _ delicious.  _ “ _ So _ .” Two glasses in, Aiden was in that pleasantly hazy state, far gone enough to forget he was far from thrilled with his current situation. Not buzzing, just,  _ humming _ , oh so wonderfully. “I hear tell the White Wolf’s retiring.”

Eskel took pause long enough that his proceding casualness was undoubtedly affected.``How’d you hear that?” He countered, keeping his eyes fixed on his food.

“So it’s true?”

“I didn’t say that.” Eskel side-stepped.

Aiden leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand. “But it  _ is _ true?”

“Aiden,” Lambert chastised, frowning at him sternly in warning.

“I was just asking,” Aiden wilted, but did not persist. He finished his dinner quietly, not paying attention to what the other two were talking about. But he watched them smile, and inch closer, and closer. He watched Lambert’s face redden, and glow under the other man’s attention. He watched him laugh.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled to no one in particular, not expecting his absence to be noted. There was nowhere to go but the bathroom, so that’s where he went, pushing the door shut with his back as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. 

Alright, maybe he got a little sensitive when he was hungover. 

A soft  _ mreow _ , followed by a light scratching, pulled him out of his reverie.“Hey buddy,” he said quietly, sliding the window above the tub open and carrying Verlaine inside. The little cat squirmed in his hands, so Aiden brought him to his chest and held him close. “It’s cold out there, huh?” he said as he kissed the cat’s head, noting the frost clinging to his fur and the tremors running through his slight form as he sat down with his back pressed uncomfortably against the lip of the bath and his head against the wall.

He wasn’t sure how long he was there for, or when he started  _ crying, _ and he didn’t know if he was more angry or sad. All he knew was that when Lambert came in, his eyes were burning and his face was wet. “I’m sorry, alright?” He looked straight at Lambert as he spoke, both the hurt and the accusation apparent in his voice, in the fraught lines of his face and the redness of his eyes. 

“Oh, Aiden —” Lambert said gently, slowly walking over. He crouched by the tub, and wrapped Aiden in his arms, pulling him to his chest. It’s a peculiar thing, feeling the purring of a cat and the trembling body of your closest friend  both at once. 

“Can you stop it now?” 

“Hey, hey, c’mon. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”

“Yes you did.” 

_ Fair _ . He at least had the decency to feel ashamed about it now, but there’s nothing he can say to make this better. “Why don’t we go see what Eskel brought us, yeah?”

Aiden flinched at the sound of the other man’s name, but nodded against Lambert’s shoulder and stood up anyway.

“Alright there?”

He threw his arms around Lambert’s neck, burying his face, holding him  _ so tight _ . What could Lambert do but hold him back? And whisper  _ I’m sorry _ and rub his back until he was calm enough to move. 

Aiden clung on to him until Lambert deposited him on the bed, only leaving him long enough to retrieve the bags from under the coffee table. Three parcels; one large, square, and heavy, the other two much smaller, identical in size, shape, and weight. Each one wrapped in cream paper with ochre scrolls, with  _ Aiden and Lambert _ written on the front in Eskel’s looping scrawl. Lambert passed him one of the smaller ones, and they opened them together. Paper was torn on Lambert’s part, and carefully peeled away on Aiden’s, to reveal the first six volumes of  _ Asterix.  _ Something bittersweet twinged in Lambert’s chest at the sight of them, but he swept it aside and pushed the other present into Aiden’s hands. 

Lambert watched as he carefully removed every piece of tape, and literally unwrapped the gift; Aiden took the thick, dark grey fabric in his hands, shaking it out and letting it pool on the bed. “I think it’s one of those weighted blankets,” he said, regarding it’s heft. He brought it up to his face, inhaling deep and rubbing it on his cheek. “Already washed.” Their eyes met then, both of them equally blown away by both the gifts and the gesture alike. 

They wasted no time in undressing, letting the soft weight of the blanket rest on their bare skin. Lambert spooned up behind Aiden with  _ Asterix the Gaul _ , Aiden’s head pillowed on his bicep, and they read. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated ♥️


	3. drunk under a streelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keen eyed observers might have noticed that the relationship tags have once again been changed. All I can say is I realised that dear Regis was much better suited to the role than Jaskier, though the latter will still be around. Thank you for bearing with me ♥︎

_It was the height of summer, so even though it was approaching ten at night. the sun had yet to take its final bow. Eskel and Geralt were still there — had come especially to see him off. They themselves were leaving for America soon; two young fighters on the cusp of something phenomenal. And so was Lambert —_ _16 and going to Rambert, everything ahead of him. They were leaving, and Lambert had no reason to stay._

_He abandoned the crowded garden for the curb. All the little kids had been sent to bed and the grown-ups were getting loud, and disgustingly sappy. Rennes was all misty-eyed, Vesemir kept blubbering about how much he was going to miss his little wolves, and how they’d always be part of the pack. Lambert needed a fucking breather._

_“There you are.” Fuck. Lambert could hear the damn smile on his stupidly handsome face. He grunted in response, didn’t turn around. The streetlight flickered on. Eskel got closer. Lambert stayed still. Eskel came to a stop beside him. Lambert tried to make himself invisible. “That beer?” If Lambert’s Eskel-senses proved accurate, that stupidly handsome smile had morphed into a stupidly handsome smirk._

_“S’not illegal.” He said defensively._

_“I thought dancers don’t drink?”_

_True enough, Lambert supposed (only half a can and he was already feeling it) and he didn’t, really. But this was a special occasion. “Don’t start class for a few weeks.” He shrugged, head down, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the sidewalk._

_“Well, I won’t tell the old men.”_

_If Lambert looked, he’d see that annoying little sparkle in Eskel’s eyes, the barest trace of a smile on his lips. But he didn’t need to look to see it, so he didn’t. He just took another swig off his beer._

_“So, you gonna miss me?”_

_Obviously. “Oh fuck off. Haven’t lived here for two years now have you?”_

_“Yeah but I visited all the time. This is different. Who knows when we’ll see each other again.”_

_“Or if,” Lambert said quietly. He didn’t mean to, but the words slipped out anyway. Tears blurred his vision and slid down his cheeks. He turned his face away so Eskel couldn’t see._

_“Hey, c’mon.” Eskel nudged his shoulder, urging him to turn around, and Lambert crashed into him. His lips pressed into Eskels — fervently, almost violently. Eskel stayed still, frozen._

_“Sorry,” Lambert mumbled, pulling away, red high in his cheeks._

_“S’fine.”_

_They rejoined the party, each one glancing at the other when they thought they weren't looking. In the morning, Lambert got on a train to Twickenham. Within a year Geralt was middleweight champion of the world, and Eskel was hot on his heels. The year after, Lambert graduated Rambert with offers to dance in in London, Moscow, Venice, Paris, even New York — offers he’d make good on over the next four years as he chased after a boy with auburn hair and an angel’s smile._

_Eskel tore a rotator cuff and hung up his gloves, endeavouring instead to make sure his oldest friend — his brother, was well taken care of, and didn’t again fall victim to bad management. Lambert quit the New York City Ballet mid-season, without warning or explanation._

_And their kiss was left suspended in that sun’s dying glow_ _—_ _left behind, like so much else, so they could go make something of themselves. One, chaste kiss; their maybe, their what-if, their almost._

.o.O.o.

Every day since Boxing Day, Eskel called and invited them out — both of them, because he was a _gentleman_ like that. Aiden would have preferred to not go, but ever since the _incident_ on Christmas Eve, Lambert insisted on being near him at all times. It was sweet, really, and entirely his fault. So he mostly hung back, only spoke when spoken too, watched his best friend fall head over heels in love with someone else. They looked good together, there was no denying it; Lambert smaller, slimmer, his curly, ruddy brown hair looked especially red next to Eskel’s mop of black. 

London was neither at its coldest nor emptiest in late December, so they mostly walked around this grey park and that rain slick highstreet until it started raining too much, or they got cold or hungry enough to seek refuge in the first pub or café with an empty table. 

One week with Eskel back in his life and Lambert was _so_ much happier; sleeping better, eating more, there was colour (the _right_ colour) in his cheeks again. He’d come back to England looking for a saviour and Aiden had led him right to a fucking saint. Lambert deserved someone like Eskel. Aiden knew that. He wouldn’t stand in the way. Didn’t mean he had to fucking like it. And it certainly didn’t mean that he had to go to this New Year’s Eve shindig at Eskel’s place.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Lambert asked absently as he attempted to pomade his hair into submission. Aiden had been watching him struggle with almost acetous pleasure, but took pity on him then and got up from his sprawl on the bed to help. Taking the brush from the dresser, Aiden started working the other man’s hair into a slightly coiffed side part. Lambert preferred his hair slicked straight back, but Lambert didn’t know shite; he looked handsomer this way. 

He was worried, Aiden knew, but waiting for the inevitable to happen was already wearing on him, and his continued presence was only slowing things down. “I’m sure,” He said when he was done, putting the brush down and straightening Lambert’s collar. It was a simple; soft cotton, deep blue, long sleeves, smooth white buttons; it was one of the many pieces of clothing Aiden bought him for Christmas, so Lambert wouldn’t have to keep borrowing his. He couldn’t help smiling as he ran his hands over it; at this material sign of his care and devotion being accepted. They would _always_ be friends, he knew that. It would just have to be enough.

But then, Lambert got that look in his eye again; the one that plainly said _kiss me_ ; his plush, deep pink lips parted ever so slightly; he leaned forward a hair’s breadth, then another, and that didn’t help at all. Aiden smiled wanly and turned away. The silence that followed was brief, by all measures, but you could feel the weight of it hanging over them; like the sudden change in air pressure when a storm rolls in. 

“You’ll be lonely,” Lambert teased. Aiden rolled his eyes and as if on cue Verlaine tapped on the window.

“See?” he said, grinning in earnest as he opened the window, and the tiny, dark grey cat slipped into his arms. “Verlaine will keep me company.” 

“You want to spend New Year’s with a cat?”.

“Yes. Now fuck off,” Aiden insisted. But when he looked at his friend he saw the concern in his eyes, maybe even a hint of hurt. “I’ll be fine,” he said softly, trying to reassure him even though they both knew it likely wasn’t true. “Really.”

.o.O.o.

It wasn’t long going from Aiden’s place to Eskel’s — barely 20 minutes on the tube, then a 10 minute walk, then he was sending a text that he was downstairs, certain he’d gotten it wrong. He was stood in front of a dingy, rundown building; glass doors plastered with peeling ads and notices for tanning salons and cheap spa deals. There was no telling what this place used to be, but it certainly seemed like an odd choice of residence for the middleweight champ and his manager.

Two grey ticks turned blue and there was no reply, no _typing_ . The clock said 18:33 — he’d been right on time, hadn’t he? A quick scroll up —they hadn’t talked about it over text and now he wasn’t sure he was remembering it right. He briefly considered turning around and going home — _running back to Aiden, as always_ — when Eskel poked his head around the corner of the building, stupid grin across his face like he hadn’t just about given Lambert a heart attack. “There you are.” _So fucking cheerful._

“Where else would I be?” The words thrown out, aggressive, a notch too loud. Lambert flinched at the sound of them, half embarrassed and all on edge. But Eskel smiled, and held out his hand, and Lambert took it without thinking twice, and just like that night in the club the years melted away, and they were friends. Eskel’s hand was still bigger than his, and rougher, and warmer, and held him like it was made to. Lambert gave a little, experimental squeeze — what he was testing for exactly he couldn’t say, but the half smile and answering press of Eskel’s fingers seemed as good a response as any. 

It was nice. Nice enough that in the two minutes it took for them to walk upstairs, he’d completely forgotten they wouldn’t be spending the evening alone. As soon as Eskel opened the door, the hoss and pop and heavenly smell of frying garlic wound its way into his nose. Christmas music was playing. Lambert couldn’t be sure but he thought they sounded like hymns. _Christmas ends in January_ he recalls as he shrugs out of his coat. A young, serious face explaining why they should continue listening to Christmas music, and leave the decorations up; _some people take it down right after Christmas day, or New Year’s, but that’s stupid. Christmas ends on the sixth of January._ Geralt wouldn’t stop staring at him, eyes boring into Lambert’s expectantly, so he nodded to show he understood. None of it mattered to him anyway — it was his first Christmas. 

Now he walked deeper into the flat, the mellow, crooning rendition of _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ getting louder, more clear. The kitchen was to his left and there he was again. He didn’t acknowledge Lambert was there, didn’t notice he was no longer alone at all, all his attention focused on pouring fresh tomato sauce into the pot, muting the sizzle of garlic.

“Geralt,” Eskel called, not too loudly, standing behind Lambert with his hands on the smaller man’s shoulder, “he’s here.”

Slowly, Geralt turned around. Remarkably familiar hazel eyes met Lambert’s, eyes that sparkled at him with old affection. Too much. Lambert felt heat prickling in his face, and that prickle turned into a flood when Geralt grabbed him — practically slammed into him — thick, muscled arms wrapping around his body, almost crushing him against a broad chest. Soft white hair tickled his cheek and neck. “Hello.” Geralt greeted with a hard kiss to the top of his head.

“Hi,” Lambert returned, when Geralt leaned back enough to look at him.

Geralt only smiled — Geralt _smiled_ — and pulled him into another embrace. Lambert guessed it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise; growing up, Geralt was always hugging him too tight. Still, you’d think not seeing each other for seven years would have cooled his jets somewhat. 

“Gentle, Geralt,” Eskel reminded him, as if he just _knew_ , as if they were children again. Geralt loosened his grip, planted another kiss to the top of Lambert’s head, and let go.

“Wine?” he asked as he walked back into the kitchen. 

“Got any beer?” Lambert didn’t really do the whole _wine_ thing,

“We’re having arrabiata.” Geralt explained, taking out a chilled decanter of chianti from the fridge, and wine glasses from the cupboard beside. 

Lambert glanced at Eskel, who shook his head — _don’t argue_. “Wine sounds good then. Thanks.”

Eskel had moved to stir the sauce but was shooed away when Geralt handed him his drink. “We better leave him too it,” The larger man said with a fond smirk as he steered Lambert to the dining table. “He hates being interrupted when he cooks.” Even so, it seemed Eskel couldn’t help but help. And more than once Lambert was left to watch as they danced around each other, Eskel anticipating their chef’s needs, they spoke without speaking, with nudges and silent glances and quite grunts, sharing one mind as they had since childhood

Lambert didn’t know what the fuck he was doing here, but he was suddenly sure he’d feel better if Aiden was too. _Fucking typical_. 

“Hey,” Eskel whispered as he sat back down across from him, shocking him out of his reverie. “Where’d you go?” He was smiling again, in that frustratingly fond way he always did.

“Nowhere,” he grunted, and again Eskel’s smile only widened.

.o.O.o.

Aiden, admittedly, was bored out of his bloody mind, and wondering how rude it would be if he just… showed up at Eskel’s, on New Year’s Eve, more than an hour late — poor form, obviously, and then he’d likely have to watch them kiss at midnight. Disgusting. Best to stay put then. 

They — he — didn’t have a T.V, and the only books he hadn’t read a thousand times were those damned comics. So he pulled _A Hundred and One Poems by Paul Veralaine_ out from the stack on his bedside table and, picking Verlaine up by the scruff of his neck, threw himself down on the couch. The cat was a warm, settling weight on his chest as he leafed through the battered, sun-stained volume. By all accounts, he should be perfectly happy, or at least content — he should be _alright_ , in any case, but old Paul just wasn’t doing it for him tonight. He threw the book of the table with a floppy _thump_ , earning him a rueful look from his furry companion. 

“S’your fault,” he chastised, “should’ve written better poetry.” Verlaine yawned, and settled down again, his back turned to Aiden. “Yeah, that’s what I thought...” He felt small, rippling vibrations against his chest, heard the cheeky bastard’s little purrs as he hunkered down. “Brat.”

Bored, trapped, he ran his fingers through the small mound of fur. The only entertainment within reach was one of _those bloody comics_ , sitting on the coffee table, mocking him. Tentatively, reluntacly, he reached out to take it, the tips of his fingers brushed the papers’ edge — the shrill ring of his phone pierced the silence and he jumped, snatching his hand back like he’d been caught with it someplace it shouldn’t be in front of polite company and Verlaine bolted to hide on the bed, under the pillows.

He didn’t need to look to know who was calling, and he didn’t need to answer to know something was wrong. “Lambert?” Somewhat breathless from his mad scramble to pick up. He heard nothing, and hoped maybe it was an accident, wondered if the connection was bad. Then he heard a quiet, muffled sob, a sharp catch of breath. “Babe? Baby, what’s wrong?” Another loaded silence, another quiet sob. 

He sniffled. “Can you come get me?” Lambert asked pleadingly, so soft it was like he was afraid of being heard. And even though Aiden knew that, realistically, Lambert likely wasn’t in danger, the near crazed urge to save, protect, filled him anyway, so much his body trembled with it. But that wouldn’t help, so he combed his hair back with his fingers and took a deep breath. Stilled himself. 

“I’ll be right there.”

As soon as the line disconnected he got another call from an unsaved number — Eskel. “I’m already coming,” he barked as he struggled to put on his coat with one arm, hanging up immediately. 

This late on New Year’s Eve traffic was a fucking nightmare even by London standards, and the tube station was filled with people desperate to get wherever they going before midnight. Aiden pushed his way to the front, earning a fair share of eyerolls and pissed-off lours. He didn’t give a shit. Practically running from the station to the address Eskel gave him the other day, he was relieved to see the man himself standing on the pavement. He would have missed it otherwise. To his credit, Eskel looked fairly put out; worry clear in the lines of his face, the slump of his shoulders. When he looked at Aiden, _help_ was burning plainly in his eyes. 

_Good._ “What happened?” he asked coldly.

“He’s upstairs,” was all Eskel said, grabbing Aiden’s arm and leading him to the back door. 

There was no time to process the sight of Geralt Rivia — the Butcher of Belfast, the White Wolf, on a couch looking yet more distraught than his oldest friend, anxiously picking at his fingernails; how he glanced nervously at Aiden and away again. Eskel gestured silently to the door behind which Lambert was sequestered. Aiden turned to look squarely at him, mustering as much authority as he could.

“Probably best he doesn’t see the two of you on the way out.”

“I’m driving you home.” Eskel said with a woefully confused frown, as if it were obvious.

_Who the fuck drives in London?_ “Who the fuck drives in London?” 

“Tube must be packed, he won’t like that.”

“Well then what do you suggest we do?” His patience was already wearing thin, but he kept his voice at a low, and even pitch, not wanting Lambert to hear. “Because I can guarantee you he's not getting in a car with you like this.”

“You drive then. Take my car.”

“Traffic—”

But Eskel was already pulling his keys out of his pocket and pressing them into Aiden’s hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said with something like earnestness in his eyes, “trust me, take the car.”

“I don’t have parking.” 

“I’ll leave a bit after you. Leave the keys in and I’ll pick it up.”

“S’bit dangerous innit?”

“It’ll be fine.” Eskel could be a persistent fuck when he wanted to be. But so could Aiden. 

“What about him?” He jerked his head toward the man on the couch. “He'll be alright alone?”

“He’ll be fine, he’s just worried. 

It was fucking stupid plan, really, but Eskel seemed so damned sure, and Lambert hated tight spaces, and it _was_ mad out there, and if the tube broke down — “Fine. Just. Stay in the kitchen or something until we leave, alright? Please.” 

Trusting that Aiden knew best, hearing the quiet desperation in his voice, and seeing it in the openness of his eyes, Eskel agreed.

The two men safely out of sight, Aiden tapped lightly on the bathroom door. “Lambert?” he called softly, “can I come in?” The door clicked a heartbeat later, and Aiden slipped inside, carefully closing the door behind him. Lambert sat with his back against the vanity, pinched red rings around his eyes. His knees were drawn up, his elbows resting on them and he had the wrist of one hand clasped in the other, picking at his fingernails. He glanced at Aiden and looked away again, clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Hey,” Aiden said softly sitting down across from him. Before he could say anything else, Lambert was crawling over to him, between his legs, hanging onto Aiden’s neck and hiding his face. Aiden’s arms curled around his body “What happened?”

“I fucked up.” Croaked, like he’d been crying or was about to. Probably both.

“Can’t have been that bad.” He replied, smoothing Lambert’s hair and stroking his neck. 

“I want to go home.” Lambert said preemptively, clinging tighter. Fine trembles ran through his body, and Aiden held tighter too, pressing his cheek against the side of Lambert’s head, rubbing his back with just enough weight. 

“Okay,” he said. “We can go home.” 

They lingered a moment longer; Lambert gathering himself, and Aiden waiting. He was still shaking when he finally stood, so Aiden slung an arm around his shoulder, and pressed close to his side. Lambert gave him a quizzical look when he steered them to Eskel’s car, but he didn’t argue. When they got home he went straight to the shower, and scrubbed the night from his skin. He kept seeing it, hearing it — _they’re at the table, Geralt asks, Eskel shakes his head, Geralt looks_ — Lambert shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against them until all he saw was the sickly green-black nothing. The water went cold. The faucet squeaked as he turned it off. 

Aiden was waiting for him at the dining table, with two bowls of ravioli that had already gone cold too. He stuck it in the microwave while Lambert got dressed and gave his hair a rough dry. He wasn’t hungry, but the least he could do is humour the guy whose evening he’d ruined. Or one of the three, at any rate. Butternut squash and sage. His favourite. He tried to not look like it made him sick. 

When at last he could get away with going to sleep, he opted for the couch. But when he tried to get a pillow from the bed, Aiden was already there, climbing in. 

“It’s just gone midnight,” he said with an elfin smile, moving in for a playful kiss. Lambert pulled back sharply, his face turned away, but not enough that he couldn’t see the hurt on Aiden’s; his lips slightly parted, his eyes big and round and stinging red, already welling up. He cried so fucking easy sometimes. “Lambert,” he said, small and quiet, like earlier but rougher, like his voice was scraping against sandpaper. And Lambert was helpless to what came next, frozen, held in place by the guilt lodged in his throat. “I love you.”

“Fuck.” Suddenly unstuck, he swept Aiden’s face up in his hands. “I know,” he breathed as he kissed his forehead. “Shit. I know. I’m sorry,” he said as he kissed his temples, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, almost violently. “I’m sorry” _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry..._

.o.O.o.

Geralt was cleaning up from dinner when he got home. Or rather, Geralt _had_ cleaned up from dinner but was still stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing at the pot like he was fighting the fourth round with a man without an engine.

“You’re gonna wear out the coating, you keep going at it like that. ” Geralt paused, whether because he was surprised by Eskel’s presence or because he was considering the validity of his statement, it was hard to say. Probably both

“It’s fine.” He decided at last, and went back to his furious scrubbing. Eskel walked up behind him, delicately, stopping only when his chest brushed the other man’s back. Gently, he placed a hand on the one with the sponge, and moved it away as he switched on the faucet with the other. With Geralt still holding it, he pulled the pot to the stream of water, turning it over slowly. Geralt watched as the soap slid off the metal, transfixed. “How is he?”

“He’ll be fine,” Eskel said, hopelessly hoping Geralt wouldn’t note the sidestep. 

“But how _is_ he?” 

“I don’t know, Geralt.” He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice but a bit wormed its way in anyway. “Didn’t see him. But Aiden’s a good friend, he’ll take care of him.”

“I thought you said he was a drug addict?”

“I said he might be a drug addict.”

“What do you he ‘he might be a drug addict’? ”

“Fuck, _Geralt_.” 

Geralt’s mouth snapped shut. Eskel didn’t need to look to know that he was scowling; frustrated, mostly at himself, for how the night had gone, at not having the answers he wanted, at his silence being asked for; hurt that was Eskel doing the asking. Eskel dropped to rest his forehead between Geralt's shoulder blades.

“Sorry,” he said in his soft, rumbling voice. Geralt relaxed a little and Eskel wrapped his arms around his waist, hooking his chin over his shoulder, and with a hand splayed across his chest pressed Geralt’s back firmly against the length of his torso, just the way he liked. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, and kissed his cheek. 

“I know. It’s okay.” The words came out flat in that way it only did when he was sad. But he forgave Eskel anyway, — because he would forgive Eskel anything, because always forgave everyone he loved anything. Eskel was just going to have to make it up to him. “I want to go to bed.” 

Eskel kissed the side of his neck, then the back of his head, his nose buried in soft white hair. “I’ll go for a quick shower.”

Geralt waited for him in his own bedroom, pouring over brochures for various stables in London. They didn’t sleep together every night, but they’d be lying if they said it wasn’t a regular thing. It started when they were teenagers, travelling around the UK from one exhibition tournament to the next, one cheap hotel to another. The three of them — Eskel, Geralt, and Vesemir — always got one room. Eskel and Geralt always shared a bed, with Vesemir on the couch if there was just the one. It continued long after, even when they had money, and separate bedrooms and in a big Vegas penthouse, and an endless series of fancy hotels. It was just easier this way — they slept easier this way, with Eskel curled around Geralt’s back, Geralt’s arm on his, pulling him tighter.

With Eskel there, Geralt’s anxiety dipped into exhaustion, and he fell asleep before too long. But Eskel was still awake when Regis came. With all the evening’s excitement, he’d forgotten the older man was coming. A thin hand reached out to tenderly stroke back the stray hairs falling into boyfriend’s face, a look of unfathomable softness of his. So enraptured, it took the good doctor a moment longer than it usually would to notice that Eskel’s eyes were wide open and watching him. 

“You’re still awake.” He spoke softly in the dark, and the familiarity of his light tripping voice was a source of comfort after such an unsettling day.

“Can’t sleep.”

He hummed lightly, a habit he no doubt picked up from the man between them. “Geralt messaged and told me what happened. Why don’t you come sit with me while I eat?” 

Carefully extricating himself from the bed, Eskel followed Regis outside. The older man was taller than he looked — only about an inch or so shorter than Eskel and Geralt, and more robust than his thin frame might suggest, as many a hiking trip had proven. Even after a thirteen hour shift in the A&E, his striking black eyes twinkled with inhuman wakefulness.

“How was work?”

“I can say with absolute certainty that an Accident and Emergency on New Year’s Eve is chaos incarnate.” He sounded almost gleeful as he stuck a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave. Eskel smirked, but did not mention Regis’ long-standing and well documented distaste for _those infernal devices that are undoubtedly poisoning us all slowly from within_. “So,” he started, sitting down neatly across from Eskel, “do think you’ll see your—” he waved his fork in the air in a vague gesture, “—person, again?”

“I don’t know,” Eskel sighed, scrubbing his face with a rough hand, “I want to.”

“Well, as your friend I must exhort you to first and foremost take care of your personal well being.”

“But?” Eskel asked, sensing that though Regis had reached the end of his sentence, he was far from the end of his thoughts.

“But,” he continued, at a more considered pace, “from what you have told me, and what Geralt told me earlier, I feel like your young friend might very well benefit from your company.”

“Mm. I’d like to think both of them would,” Eskel mumbled sheepishly, a slight warmth blossoming in his cheeks. 

“The drug addict?”

“Possible drug addict.” Eskel corrected. Regis smiled in a way that plainly said _Oh look, he’s already protective, how cute,_ and Eskel rolled his eyes in return. 

They sat in silence after that, Regis savouring Geralt’s cooking with a glass of chianti; Eskel replayed every second he’d spent in Lambert’s company in the last nine days; his mind wandered deeper into the well of memory, to the life they once shared; to the cold winter’s night when Lambert arrived, and the summer’s one that was the scene of their parting, and every laugh, ragged breath and warm embrace in between. Round and round he went until he saw again the bruised face and worried eyes bathed in champagne lights, the flash of auburn hair and green irises, blood welling in a fine nose; two lithe bodies relaxed in sleep, holding hands, soft faces poking out from a blanket he bought; auburn hair, sad green eyes staring at the pavement as he trailed behind them; an explosion of anger followed immediately by a surge of panic, deep brown eyes darting around the room, already on the verge of tears—

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Regis spoke softly, reached out to lay a gentle hand on his. Eskel nodded as he yawned, stretching his arms above his head, back arching to loosen stiff muscles. Standing up, he rolled his shoulders, trying not to wince at the familiar twinge in his left. He sauntered off to Geralt’s room, but paused just shy of entering, his hand on the doorknob.

“You don’t have any morning _plans_ do you?” he asked, twisting to look back at Regis.

“Oh that was one time Eskel, move on will you? Besides, it was hardly _planned_.” Eskel looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow hooked, waiting. Defeated, Regis sighed deeply. “I promise I have no intentions of having sex with Geralt with you still in the bed, nor will I do so if the desire stirs without forewarning.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Eskel turned back around and began to open the door

“I’ll simply wake you up and ask you to leave.”

“G’night Regis.”

“Good night, dear friend.”

.o.O.o.

When Lambert woke up, he checked to make sure that Verlaine had spent the night, and found him curled up at Aiden’s back. It was with thus dampened guilt that he carefully removed his non-boyfriend from his chest, and slipped quietly out of bed. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about last night. _Why did you quit ballet?_ A perfectly reasonable question — but he saw Eskel shake his head slightly from the corner of his eye, lips pursed, _no Geralt,_ as if he couldn’t handle himself. He saw, but Geralt didn’t, so Geralt didn’t drop it. _Why did you quit? But you love ballet, but you’re good at it, why join the circus? Why did you leave the circus? What are you doing now?_ Lambert didn’t have a good answer for any of it, and Geralt kept looking at him with those piercing, inquisitive eyes, and Lambert forgot how to speak. _Geralt,_ Eskel’s voice cut through rising tension, slicing Lambert’s throat on the way — _Stop._

_I can fucking handle myself alrigbt?_ He didn’t mean to yell but the words burst out that way anyway. He heard the harsh scrape of the chair as he pushed away from the table but he didn’t remember standing, and he didn’t know when his vision started swimming but he remembered when it stopped, and he saw with absolute clarity Geralt, eyes like a cornered rabbit, his heart beating in kind; Eskel looking at him with what could only be described as sorrow. So he did what he always did when he fucked up — he ran away and went cryin to _Aiden_.

But that’s not how last night was supposed to happen, no. He was supposed to go, and break in the new year with the people who had been his friends — his first friends, and he was supposed to get the rest of his first kiss. So now, in the faint light of January’s first hours, he got dressed, and left quietly, and asked Eskel to meet him outside of his weird little building.

He was there, waiting, when Lambert arrived, bathed in the pale glow of a street lamp and a rising sun. Lambert didn’t want to see the look on Eskel’s face, too worried of what he might find. He just kissed him, as brash and graceless as the first time. He pulled back enough to see Eskel’s reaction; his face flushed, his lips pink and parted in surprise, eyes roving Lambert’s in return; and then he was kissing him back; those hands holding his face, his tongue sweeping Lambert’s lips. The street lamp flickered off. The sun rose over them, blossoming through the gauzy morning mist, and for the first time in seven years Lambert felt something in his chest become unstuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated ♥️


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